


Anchor Me

by Mohini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Past Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the last thing you need is a savior. Sometimes, what you desperately need is an anchor, a means by which to drag yourself up from the depths to which you have fallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor Me

                “You coming to class?” Theodore asks as he passes by the bed. Bleary grey eyes look briefly up at him and Draco shakes his head. “It’s been nearly a week. You know they’re going to kick you out if you don’t start showing up?”

                All Draco manages is to nod once, before the effort of keeping his eyes open is too much and he closes them once more. He knows he should go to class, go to meals, get out of the bed and at least shower, but he can’t muster the energy to follow through. It just feels too overwhelming. He didn’t want to come back to school in the first place, and now here he is, in a place where everyone hates him. He burrows deeper beneath the covers and wills himself to sleep once more. It’s been three days since he left the bed for more than a quick run to the toilet. He vaguely wonders how long it takes to starve to death.

                The weight on the edge of the bed startles him for a moment, and he opens his eyes to find the last person he would expect sitting there. “You really should get up, you know,” Potter tells him. Draco nods, hoping he will leave soon. He already knows what is at stake. He just can’t seem to care enough to do anything about it. When Draco doesn’t answer, Harry seems to take that as a reason to continue speaking. “If you can’t manage class, at least eat something. Pansy says you haven’t in a few days.”

                Draco considers asking him when he started talking to Pansy as though they were old friends, but then he remembers that Pansy and the baby Weasley have been in each other’s beds more than not for the last month. “I’ll bring you something up. I’ll be back in a bit.”

                Draco doesn’t know why Harry would be trying to take care of him. Things between them had been pretty murky, just before school started. No longer enemies, but not ready to be friends, and certainly, absolutely, not anything more, no matter how right that kiss after the two bottles of Ogden’s old had felt the night before getting on the Hogwart’s Express. They’ve barely spoken since arriving back at school. Just another thing he doesn’t have the energy to figure his way through. The walls are closing in again, just as they have in fits and starts since he was too young to remember. This is probably the worst the darkness has gotten since 7th year ended, but he hasn’t the will to fight anymore. Every time he thinks of getting up, he remembers that the parchment is still waiting for him on his desk, the one announcing in sterile Ministry script that his father has died in Azkaban, leaving him essentially an orphan. The shell that was once his mother no longer counts as such while she spends her days on the locked ward at St. Mungo’s unable to remember much of anything. Lying to the Dark Lord comes with consequences, after all.

                He doesn’t realize he has gone to sleep again until Harry is back, calling his name until he opens his eyes. He can’t pull himself upright, and Harry shoves pillows behind his back to lift him up enough to feed him. He opens his mouth mechanically, as Harry coaches him through a bowl of porridge. He wonders how the other boy knows that Draco will eat, if only he doesn’t have to do it himself. Harry wipes his mouth for him, keeping him clean and tidy despite the fact that it has been days since he last bathed and nights filled with terror dreams have him stinking of sweat. As he takes another mouthful of porridge, he vaguely registers his stomach lurching. Three days without food and it’s not going to stay down. He gags and a few bites worth of porridge rise into his mouth and dribble down his chin. Harry doesn’t say a word, just wipes his neck and chin and puts the bowl down on the bed.

                “Do you feel sick? Or was that just too much for now?” Harry asks him after he holds up a tumbler of water for Draco to rinse his mouth out. Draco spits the water into the half consumed bowl of porridge Harry holds near his chin. Once more, a cloth is wiped against his skin, cleaning him gently.

                “Too much,” Draco manages to whisper. His voice sounds odd, almost as if lack of use has broken it somehow.

                “That’s fine. You did well. You made it about a third of the way through. Will you let me help you to the shower? You might feel a bit better cleaned up.”

                Draco shrugs. Clean or filthy, he’s still going to be treading water in the middle of the darkness, but he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. Harry puts an arm around him, just under his shoulders and helps him to his feet. The ensuing dizziness is overpowering, and Draco sways, struggling to remain conscious. “I’ve got you,” Harry tells him calmly. They don’t move for a while, and as the spinning eases, Draco feels himself being led to the shower room. Harry conjures an odd looking pale chair with metal legs and puts it under the spray. “Sit, so you don’t fall down while I clean you up,” he tells Draco.

                Draco complies, half embarrassed at being ordered about like a baby. Like everything else, though, he feels so disconnected that it doesn’t really matter. He feels his clothing being removed, and soon he is sitting in nothing but his pants. He is grateful when there is no move to take those from him. Harry adjusts the taps and sets to work, washing his greasy hair and wiping a soapy flannel over his sweat fouled skin. He hands the flannel to him and instructs him to wash his bits, turning his back while Draco mechanically washes himself without removing his pants. When Draco is finished, Harry rinses him with warm water from the spray before gently towel drying his hair and wrapping him in a second fluffy length of terry cloth.

                “I’m going to get you some fresh clothes. I’ll be right back,” he says, and in a few moments he returns with simple cotton sleep trousers, fresh pants, and a loose shirt. Draco half wonders how Harry knew where to find his comfort clothing, but he doesn’t much care as he slips into it. Once more, Harry turns around while he changes his pants and pulls on the sleeping trousers.

                “I had the elves change out your bed linens,” Harry tells him as he leads him back into the main dormitory room. He helps him into the bed and tucks the covers up to his chin. “I’m going to go on to classes now, but I’ll be back later to bring you something to eat and check on you.”

                Draco nods, and closes his eyes. He’s afraid if he doesn’t tears might leak out and he does not want Harry to see that. He does not want to admit how badly he does not want to be alone, here in the room that reminds him all too well of how many of his friends did not return to school. He’s barely aware that he is shaking as he rolls over and curls up in a ball, trying to will the torrent of memories to stop. For the millionth time, he sees Vince falling into the fiendfyre. A soft pressure against his shoulder makes him aware that Harry hasn’t actually left yet.

                “Do you want me to stay with you?” Harry asks him. Draco knows he should tell him to go. He can’t. He nods, not trusting his broken voice to manage it. The bed dips as Harry sits down beside him. He doesn’t pull him closer or try to hold onto him. He just keeps one hand, soft and solid, wrapped around the top of one shoulder. It is enough. It is too much. It is everything.

                Draco can practically feel the walls in his mind imploding as the occlumency shields fail. He’s been fighting this for months, and the fight is gone. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t have the energy for a huge, emotional breakdown. He just stays curled up in his little ball, with his knees tight to his chest as he shakes uncontrollably. The memories are almost visceral in their intensity. He can feel Harry’s hand, steady and calm against him. He loses time, and when the flashbacks finally begin to fade out, he rolls back to face the boy who is sitting so quietly beside him while he breaks. Once again, the response is carefully executed. Harry smoothes Draco’s hair away from his face and places his hand back against his shoulder, the opposite one now that he is facing him.

                “I don’t know what to do for you,” Harry tells him softly.

                Draco doesn’t know how to tell him that he is already doing everything that he needs, everything he could ask for. He opens his eyes and looks up at Harry, trying to express what he needs him to know without the words to explain. He doesn’t need a savior. He’s had that too many times. Pansy once, in the Manor when he tried a cutting charm on his wrists the summer before 6th year. Blaise took the title in 6th year after he swallowed five doses of Dreamless Sleep at once. Severus, during the hell that was 7th year, with a bezoar and a half dozen complicated healing spells. No, he’s had saviors. None of them could really save him from the darkness.

                What he needs is an anchor. He reaches out, grabs Harry’s free hand and holds on tight. “I’ve got you,” Harry whispers, finally pulling him close and holding him tight. The tears that have been kept under wraps for what seems an eternity are suddenly pouring free, and Draco breaks down in the safety of strong arms that encircle him, keeping him safe from his demons. Harry repeats over and over that he’s safe, that Harry isn’t going anywhere.

                When he has cried himself out, he feels as though he has been wrung dry. Breathing deeply is painful, his lungs aching and raw. His eyes feel gritty, and his face is swollen and surely red. None of it matters. Harry continues to hold him, whispering reassurances and running a hand through his hair. He hears the door open, and doesn’t bother to look up. It really doesn’t matter anymore who might see him. Harry is holding him and he is safe. Broken, but finally, blessedly safe.

                “Dray?” Theodore asks softly. When Draco doesn’t speak, he hears the footsteps as Theo moves closer. “What happened?” he asks, the question directed at Harry this time.

                “I don’t really know,” Harry replies.

                Theo seems to accept this answer, patting Draco awkwardly on the back and turning around once more. Draco presses his face into Harry’s shoulder, not wanting to look up or have to speak. “Do you want to talk?” Harry asks him quietly. Draco shakes his head, the movement making his brain throb. He whimpers at the sensation.

                “Headache?” Harry asks. Draco mumbles an affirmation and Harry begins to rub at his scalp, fingers deftly digging into the skin and rubbing away the pain. Draco can feel the magic seeping in as Harry casts a pain blocking charm. He half wonders how he knows how to do this, but can’t bring himself to care enough to ask. All that matters is that he does know, and he is using the knowledge to give Draco what he needs without having to ask.

                “Close your eyes and try to sleep,” Harry tells him. “I’ll stay right here.”

                Draco nods and feels Harry shift beneath him, stretching out on the bed without releasing his hold on him. Soon they are both settled against Draco’s pillows and Draco presses himself closely alongside Harry, breathing slowly and deeply as he drifts. He’s always so tired. He thinks he could probably sleep for weeks and still be exhausted. It feels like only moments later when he wakes with his pulse racing and his mind a blur of panic and memories of pain. Someone is holding him, and he fists his hands in Harry’s shirt as he clings to him.

                “You had a nightmare,” Harry tells him. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

                Draco can’t manage words, just holds on, hiding his face against Harry and barely aware that he is shaking. When his body is back under control, he pulls away enough to look at Harry. He doesn’t know what to say, but he needs to know why he’s being cared for like this. He knows he’s been like this at least a week. Time has blurred together as the darkness closed in, and he’s not sure how long it has been since he left the dorm room. He does know that Harry has been with him all day, though, and he needs to know why.

                It’s the only word he gets out, his throat raw and achy. He realizes he must have been screaming before he woke up. He keeps a silencing charm on the bed so that no one will hear him. Holding him as he has been, Harry must have been nearly deafened when the nightmares came. It takes a few moments before Harry answers him.

                “I don’t know,” he says, and his face is open and honest. “Just feels right, felt right before school, and I shouldn’t have blown you off the way I did. This, now, it’s what you need. I’m not sure you want it, but you do need it.”

                Draco doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t want to be Harry’s charity case. It takes a while to get the words together in his jumbled brain. The darkness makes it so hard to focus, as if putting the words in order in the midst of a fog. “Don’t need pity,” Draco whispers. “Don’t want to be your pity case.”

                “You’re not,” Harry replies immediately, and Draco knows it is the truth. Those eyes are too open to be lying to him. “I don’t feel sorry for you. I just want to help.”

                Draco watches him for a while before he nods. “I don’t know if I want help,” he says, and that is true as well. He both wants and desperately needs Harry to hold him and give him something to cling to at the same time that he wants to be left alone to drift until everything stops hurting.

                “Would you be willing to let me try?” Harry asks, and Draco nods, a tear escaping as his lip trembles. He doesn’t want to cry anymore, but it seems he isn’t going to get a choice.

                “Will you let me take you to the hospital wing? I’ll stay with you. I just think maybe some potions might help, in the short term at least. So you can think more clearly. I know you don’t like feeling so muddled up.”

                Draco has no idea how Harry knows what his brain feels like, but he nods in agreement. Harry helps him to his feet and leads him to the wardrobe. He dresses him like a little child, wrapping a warm robe around him and sliding his feet into well shined shoes. Harry is still dressed from the morning, and Draco wonders for a moment how uncomfortable it must have been to lie in bed with him in tailored trousers and a tie. Draco focuses all his energy on putting one foot in front of the other as they make their way down the stairs and through the common room. He can barely see through the hazy, tilting images his weary body presents. He stumbles frequently, and Harry keeps a tight hold on his waist, preventing him from falling time and again.

                By the time they enter the hospital wing, Draco has greyed out twice, and Harry is supporting almost all of his weight and coaching him through every step. He calls out for the matron the moment they are through the doors. Draco sinks onto the cot that Harry leads him to, curling up in a ball and breathing heavily. He hears Harry speaking to the matron, telling her that Draco has shut down, that he isn’t eating, that his sleep is marred by nightmares, that he has stopped cleaning himself. Harry tells her what he did that morning, and that Draco’s stomach had rejected even a small amount of food. He requests several potions by name, and Draco understands after a moment that Harry has been given some of them himself when he refuses one on account of the foul taste.

                Madame Pomfrey doesn’t touch him. The only hands on him are Harry’s and Draco manages to relax enough to allow his body to stretch out on the cot as Harry coaxes him into a better position for taking the potions. He is propped up on a few pillows, and Harry puts an arm under his shoulders to hold him steady. Phial after phial is brought to his lips and Draco drinks as he is instructed, gagging at the more foul ones but oddly proud of not getting sick again. He needs to show Harry he is trying. He doesn’t know why, but he needs it very badly.

                Draco drifts in a potions fueled haze for what seems an eternity, and when he is finally able to wake fully, he finds that Harry is dozing in a chair beside the cot. He watches him for a while, trying to remember what happened, how he came to be in the infirmary. He remembers arms around him, soft touches, gentle reassurance. The darkness is still there, pressing against him, but he can see a bit better now, and he doesn’t think he wants it to swallow him anymore.

                “Harry?” he whispers. The other boy is awake instantly, a hand reaching out to grasp Draco’s at once.

                “You’re awake,” Harry says softly, and the concern there is impossible to miss. Draco nods, and tugs a bit at the hand holding his. Harry stands and comes close enough that Draco is able to lean against him. Harry puts his arms around him, climbing into the bed to better hold him. From the safety of those arms, Draco is able to ask what happened. Harry tells him about the previous day, about how out of it he had been. He tells him that he allowed Harry to clean him up and bring him to the hospital wing. He tells him that Madame Pomfrey has given him mood stabilizing potions and that he should be able to return to the dorm that afternoon if he wants.

                Draco shudders at the thought of being on his own again, fearing that now that he is alright, the anchor he needs so badly will be taken from him. Harry holds him a bit tighter and kisses the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere, Draco,” he tells him quietly. The relief that simple sentence brings is immense. Draco can feel the tension melting out of his body, and he sags against Harry. “Do you think you can handle classes?”

                “Won’t matter,” Draco whispers. He can feel tears burning in his eyes again and the shame is almost painful. He cried yesterday, he knows, but now he is too aware and too afraid to let it happen again. There is too much power in seeing someone break down. He’s frightened to give that power to anyone.

                Harry holds him close and rubs his back. “It’s alright. I’ve got you,” he tells him quietly. “I won’t let you fall apart again.”

                Draco wants to believe him. But he’s been down this path too many times. No one can keep the depression at bay for very long. Blaise and Pansy and even his mother have tried in the past. It isn’t possible. The potions work for a time, and then they fail. Draco is fundamentally broken, and he knows that nothing is going to fix it. The wounds are too deep, too old, to ever heal properly. He hears someone approaching the bed, and he is half aware of burying his face against Harry’s shirt, hiding from whoever has come near them.

                He hears Harry speaking, and then the voice of the matron. Madame Pomfrey tells Harry that he needs to go to class, and that Draco will be in good hands here in the infirmary. Harry refuses, telling her that he made a promise he intends to keep. Draco feels himself begin to shake, and he can’t stop the panic that threatens to overwhelm him. He does not want to be alone. Even with the potions keeping the worst of the darkness at bay, he is so frightened. He knows he cannot handle being alone. While Harry and the matron argue, Draco clings tighter and tighter to Harry, his hands buried in the other boy’s shirt and his breath beginning to come in pitiful gasps.

                “Can’t you see you’re scaring the fuck out of him?” Harry finally says, and his voice is not raised but quiet and icy cold. “I am not leaving. Full stop. Give him whatever potions he needs, bring him food if you think he’ll eat it, but do not tell me to leave him.”

                That tone brooks no place for argument, and the matron clearly understands it. Draco begins to relax as he hears her acquiesce. When her footsteps sound on the floor once more, he looks up at Harry, unspoken questions in his eyes.

                “I’ll Imperius her if she keeps at it,” Harry tells him, and the calm sensibility of his tone is soothing. “Now, do you think you can talk to me about what happened? Something must have triggered this. Pansy says you go through cycles of pretty serious depression, but that this was extreme even for your usual patterns.”

                Draco spares a thought to be annoyed at Pansy for spilling his secrets, but then realizes that the betrayal of trust is the reason he now has Harry’s arms around him. It’s hard to be angry with her for long.

                “Father,” Draco whispers. He can’t finish that sentence. He hopes Harry has heard. For once he hopes that the news was in the Prophet, just so that he doesn’t have to say the words out loud.

                “I see. I heard someone saying that you weren’t allowed to give him a proper burial, that the Wizengamot won’t release the body?”

                Draco nods. The tears are threatening again, and he tries to breathe through them. His body fails him, and his breath comes out as a sob. Harry whispers what Draco recognizes as a silencing charm and then drops his head down so that his lips nearly touch Draco’s ear as he speaks. “I’ve got you,” he says. Draco shakes his head, wishing he could explain how desperately he does not want to cry again. Harry rubs his shoulders as he clings to him, taking shallow breaths until he can calm himself again. He would almost welcome the numbness over this overwhelming tide of emotions.

                “I’ll write to Kingsley, see what I can do, alright?”

                Draco nods against him, his breath still unsteady. He is not going to cry. He will not allow himself to cry again. Harry runs a hand through his hair and down his back, and the touch is calming, centering. He focuses on the sensation as Harry repeats the action. Eventually, Draco is calm again, concentrating on feeling Harry’s hand on his back and the sound of his heart near his ear. It isn’t long before he is asleep once more.

                When Harry wakes him, it is to coax a few bites of soup and some toast into him before they leave the hospital wing. Harry has somehow managed to convince the matron that Draco needn’t stay the night in the infirmary. He hears Harry swearing to keep watch over him, and is vaguely aware of consenting to a watching charm. He’s had these before, cast by Snape after he made attempts at ending his life years prior. This time, it is linked to both the matron and Harry, at the other boy’s insistence. He uses that icy calm voice again, and Draco wonders if anyone is able to resist it. It is a tone that is terrifying in a way that not even the Dark Lord ever was.

                Draco follows Harry to the dorms, his head foggy from the heavy doses of potions. He knows that the mood stabilizers take a while to work, and that this feeling will fade in a few days. Until then, though, he is frightened and disoriented. He’s never been so grateful to have someone by his side. Harry guides him back to their dorm, and Draco curls up under the blankets of his bed once they finally make it there. He is shaky and weak from not eating much for a while and the little bit he consumed before they left the hospital wing is making his stomach churn.

                Harry sits beside him and pets his hair, waiting while he rests and tries to breathe through the nausea. “I take it the calmia upsets your stomach?” Harry finally asks. Draco manages a small nod, feeling increasingly as though he is going to vomit. “Do you need the toilet?” Another nod, this time swallowing hard as he fights to keep his tiny lunch down long enough to make it there. Harry doesn’t bother to get him to his feet this time, just picks him up like an oversized toddler and carries him into the bathroom. He deposits him in the stall and backs away as Draco clutches the rim of the toilet, coughing pitifully before he retches hard enough to bring his food back up. When he is finished, Harry offers him a tumbler of water to rinse his mouth and takes him back to bed.

                “I’ll send someone to fetch some nausea draughts. I should have thought to ask if you’d need them before we came back here,” Harry tells him. He tucks Draco under the blankets and heads out of the room. A few minutes later he is back and tells Draco that Pansy has gone to get the necessary potions. The calmia is good for keeping the gnawing panic at bay, but it makes eating almost impossible. It’s the reason Draco rarely takes it unless he is falling apart. His face is damp, and he is barely aware that he is crying again.

                Harry stretches out beside him and pulls him close. “I’ve got you. It’s going to be alright, Draco. Tell me what’s going on, yeah?”

                “Can’t think,” Draco whispers. “My stomach hurts. I’m scared for no reason and my thoughts won’t fucking hold together. Just want to sleep until it’s over.”

                “The potions, the depression, or both?” Harry asks as he wipes the tears from Draco’s face.

                “Yes?” Draco says, not knowing the right answer. The darkness was bad, probably the worst it has ever been. But this, this sky high anxiety and feeling sick on top of it was making everything worse.

                “I’m sorry. I wish I knew a better way. Just, you have no idea how awful you looked yesterday. I wouldn’t have let her give you so much at once otherwise.”

                “Why?” Draco asks again. He needs to know why he is being cared for, why Harry is trying to help him. He knows that the hate from so many years has melted away, but he doesn’t know what this is and it’s so hazy that he needs a clear explanation. Ambiguity was a fast ticket to death in his house the last few years, and he needs his world to be in absolutes.

                “Because I’ve been where you are,” Harry says simply. When Draco stares at him, Harry silently rolls back the sleeves of his button down shirt, baring deeply scarred wrists and forearms. It looked as though Harry had attempted to slice the veins out of his body, rather than simply severing them as Draco had done to himself years ago. The scarring looks recent, and Draco can’t stop himself from reaching out to trace a finger along one thick, jagged line.

                “I did it the beginning of summer, right after the battle. Everyone congratulating me on something that I didn’t really do, you know? I snapped. Did you know portraits can cast? I didn’t. Took a _sectumsempra_ to my wrists, figured it was pretty safe no one would know how to fix it. I didn’t count on the stupid portrait of Phinneas Niggellus dragging Snape back to Grimmauld. He healed it, screamed at me for a while, and walked me through brewing the mood stabilizers. Believe me, I know how much this sucks. I couldn’t watch you go through it alone.”

                 “Because you had to,” Draco finishes for him, and Harry nods.

                “Heroes do not require rescuing,” Harry says, and his voice is eerily calm. Draco holds tightly to him, feeling more at ease than he has in months.

                “Only Death Eaters, yeah?” he asks quietly.

                “Former. Let’s face it, you weren’t ever really cut out for that life, Draco,” Harry tells him, and the sadness has gone from his voice, replaced by gentle understanding. Draco nods, and Harry resumes rubbing his back as he rests against him. Draco is half asleep when Pansy arrives with the nausea draughts. He vaguely registers Harry tipping a phial into his mouth before he is soundly asleep in his arms.

                He wakes several hours later, half surprised to find that he is still resting against Harry’s chest. He was certain the other boy would have moved away from him once he was out. “Hey there,” Harry says softly when he pushes himself to a sitting position. “How are you feeling?”

                “Tired. Don’t understand how I can be this tired. I haven’t done anything but sleep for ages.” Draco replies.

                “I don’t know either, but I think it’s pretty normal. Something about hormonal imbalances and brain chemistry making you need too much sleep, I think. How’s your stomach? Do you think you can manage a little bit of dinner? Those potions are going to be hell on your system if you can’t eat with them.”

                Draco nods, not certain he wants to eat but well aware of how sick the potions will make him if he doesn’t. Harry summons a house-elf and a tray with far too much food arrives moments later. Harry fills a plate for himself and the ladles some soup into a dish for Draco. It’s odd to be eating in bed like this, but he takes a few bites in an effort to please Harry. He is rewarded by the provision of a phial of nausea draught and a succession of anxiety and mood stabilizing potions. By the time he has swallowed them all, he is tired again and curls up on the bed with his head against Harry’s hip.


End file.
